Unspoken
by Rykahna Wil Troi
Summary: Stream of consciousness Buffy thoughts during "Smashed"


Title: UNSPOKEN  
Author: Rykahna Wil Troi  
Email: Rykahna@yahoo.com  
  
Rating: PG-13  
Category: Vignette  
Spoilers: "Smashed"  
  
Disclaimer: Joss does, I don't. 'Nuff said.  
  
Summary: Buffy's ruminations, sort of stream-of-consciousness, during the end scene of "Smashed."  
  
  
  
Shut him up. Don't let him speak. Don't let him finish that sentence, no matter what it takes. Don't let him use that "L" word.  
  
We both know that he thinks he's here to stay. And we both know if he leaves, it's going to be because I somehow managed, despite all probability, to push him out the door. And we both know that if I do that, it's not going to be because he's a monster, or because I despise him, or for any of the million other excuses I feed myself daily. It will be so that once, just once, I can lose someone on my own terms.  
  
We both know this. It doesn't need to be spoken. So shut him up, cut the words off before they take on a life of their own. Leave them unspoken.  
  
Lips. Lips are a funny thing. How can something that feels so good have the power to make sounds that hurt so bad? Doesn't matter. Don't think. Don't speak, don't think, just keep kissing. That's better. Better than the hateful sounds we call language. Better than the sneers that cushion a hundred hard, hurtful truths.  
  
It doesn't matter, anyway. What's another kiss? Same old pattern. The kissing, the falling in love, the sex, the leaving. Of course, it looks like this time it might be in a different order; kissing, sex, falling in love, then the leaving. No. Not this time. This time it will be different. You have to feel to fall in love, and that's not going to happen. Ever, ever again. It's easier to be numb, to be cold. He's the one whose body heat never rises above room temperature, but between the two of us, we know which one is colder, which one is encased in ice.  
  
Zipper--gone. Skirt lifted. Ankles locked behind his hips, the coolness of his undead body scalding me inside and out, and then suddenly there are eyes. Eyes blacker than midnight in the darkness, staring at me wide with amazement, as though I'm the most wondrous thing he's seen in nearly a century and a half of existence. Don't look. Don't think. Don't speak. Don't feel. Just. Move. Substitute tactile sensation for the emotional kind and call it good.  
  
Close my eyes to shut the sight of his out and move. Kiss again. That's better. Nothing to see, nothing to say, nothing to feel. Tenderness. He's trying to be tender. Not that. Anything but that. Tenderness leads to leaving. I've got precedent on my side to prove that.  
  
Harder. Kiss him harder. Move faster. That's better. That's good...God, that's so good, and--ow! oh God, that's even better...  
  
Back against the wall, unstable and crumbling as it is. That's fitting. Hand grasping for a purchase, not because I fear he can't hold me, but because if I don't do something with it, I might touch him, might caress him, and that's too close to tenderness for my safety. Can't have that. Never, ever again.  
  
No kissing now. Just movement. Just fullness. Just grunts and groans and stars behind my eyelids and the world crashing down around us. Hollow pleasure that I barely register emotionally even while my body quakes. His face buried against my chest, so damned close to my neck. Maybe if I throw my head back a little bit more, he'll take me up on my unspoken plea, be tempted by the vulnerable, proffered jugular there. Why else have I been courting him for two months? Why else haven't I ended this insanity once and for all? There's nothing holding him back--he can do it, if I can just drive him to it.  
  
Why isn't he doing it?  
  
He's just shuddering there with his face against my breast, his breath cool through the filmy layer of my blouse. His human face. He hasn't even transformed. Not in rage, not in passion. That's not supposed to be. He's a monster--why isn't he acting like a monster?  
  
We both know why. I don't even need to ask. Just as we both know the secret fears he was about to lay bare before I kissed him.  
  
I collapse forward, my weight leaving the wall and falling upon him, and then we're falling together, crashing down to earth in the most literal of senses. First there's an instant of pain, which is good, followed immediately by concern for his safety. There's wood scattered all around us--so easy for some evil sliver to exact fate's petty revenge for my unknown sins. That can't happen--please God, that can't happen. He's my salvation, my destruction. We both know I need him if I'm ever going to be free.  
  
And then there are eyes, and I can't look away. Eyes penetrating my inner self even more frankly than his body is penetrating mine. Eyes that see past my secrets, my lies, my self-deception. Eyes that mock, eyes that challenge, eyes that love. I'm powerless to stop looking at them. I look into his eyes and I feel...  
  
I feel...  
  
God help me.  
  
I feel. 


End file.
